


bacchanalia

by prouvairing



Series: Demigod AU [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demigods, Alternate Universe - Percy Jackson Fusion, Dreamsharing, Father-Son Relationship, M/M, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-22 04:53:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prouvairing/pseuds/prouvairing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire had told him so, pushed past rows of snarling teeth and steel-blue eyes, “Serious? I am <i>wild</i>.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	bacchanalia

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I should proofread this some more, but it has been in my laptop for _days_ and it really needs to get out. There are several links and references to details I wanna add, but they’ll bet at the end~

In his dream, Grantaire is in a tattoo parlor and the bruise on his left cheekbone is already fading. You really can’t tell, but somehow Enjolras knows that his ribs are bruised too (where they were cracked before) and he is stuffed with ambrosia, just this side of bursting into flames. There are bloodstains on his t-shirt too, but they are lost in the myriad of paint splatters and dirt (it might have been an orange Camp shirt, once, but it’s really hard to tell).

There’s another boy with him, dark and lanky, with eyes like the Underworld and red smirking lips. A black sword hangs nonchalantly at his hip, glowing faintly, and of course no one the parlor seems to notice. “So you’re going for it, R?” the boy asks. Grantaire grins and had he known him a tad bit less, Enjolras would have missed the nervous edge to it. “What, you’re not, Parnasse?”

The boy – Parnasse – shrugs and approaches the lady at the desk with a shining smile. Grantaire pulls a sketchbook out of his backpack (which has certainly seen better days). When asked, he shows the lady a series of bright watercolors. Enjolras’s mind (and it ends up sounding like Combeferre) supplies the names of the monsters depicted. Empousai, telekhines, lycanthropes, griphons and, surprisingly, the Chimera. Again, as with the bruises, Enjolras knows that they are monsters the two have slain.

“The Chimera, technically, is yours.”

“It was a joint effort. Plus you disbanded those _kobaloi_ , so I owe you.”

“Calling in Daddy’s influence hardly counts.”

The tattoo artist seems concerned about their age for all of two seconds, but then blinks it away thanks to improper use of the Mist.

When he wakes up, Enjolras’s forearms still prickle with pain not his own.

*

Mr. D never liked him, and for the longest time Enjolras had it down to their old arguments on the state and treatment of satyrs (said satyrs had taken to avoiding Enjolras, in fear of retaliation, which only increased his righteous fury).

He and Grantaire would argue over it too, but then again, he and Grantaire would argue over everything.

“You’re only making it worse for them, now,” Grantaire would shout, at counselor meetings. With two quests, Enjolras had successfully challenged the previous Apollo counselor, who had been at camp a mere two years longer than him. Grantaire, of course, was the Cabin 12 counselor as its only camper. “And they don’t need to be saved by _you_. Who do you think you are? A pretty Apollo kid coming in to save the day? _Please_.”

And it didn’t stop at the plight of satyrs – Grantaire made it pretty clear just how foolish he considered Enjolras’s plans for the betterment of their own situation.

“I’m talking about all children being claimed. Cabins for minor gods – a cabin for _Hades_ , for crying out loud! So we can finally stop crowding them all in Cabin 11! Look at Jehan –“

“Jehan is _happy_ in Cabin 11.”

Enjolras’s eyes might as well have shot lightning. “True, but it doesn’t make Cabin 11 any bigger, does it? They’re still cramped, sleeping on the floor. It’s a disgrace. And it’s only the tip of the iceberg: when they’re there, at least they’re safe. But what happens to us when we leave? When we’re left to our own devices? You haven’t been out there recently, but maybe you remember: we are _not_ safe. We’re never safe. We die by the hundreds before we even get to college. Where are our support groups? Our safe houses? We can make Camp safe enough for young demigods, why can’t we do the same for a city? Create somewhere we can go so we don’t have to look behind our backs every five minutes, so that we can make plans for a future, so that we don’t risk our lives every time we set foot out the door?”

Grantaire’s eyes would become steel-blue then, unclouded by irony, boredom, or cynicism, and it would make something warm shift in Enjolras, fill him up like ambrosia (and he would say it was only triumph – that maybe he had convinced Grantaire of all people – and it would be a lie).

It would all be gone after a moment, shut behind Grantaire’s sneer.

“Are you really that naïve? You’re battling _gods_ , sunshine, even you can’t hope to win. You don’t stand a chance,” he would spit out, and the curve of his lips was bitter.

“At least I’m _trying_ , instead of just sitting here, useless and hiding, complaining that Daddy doesn’t love me!” Enjolras shouted back, and something in the way Grantaire’s eyes widened and the rest of the counselors wore shock and alarm on their faces, made him regret it right away.

Once again, the burst of feeling in Grantaire’s eyes – and it couldn’t be hurt, how could _he_ hurt Grantaire, who cared for nothing? – was hidden. Just like him, hiding always.

“At least, Enjolras,” he said, and the use of his name, free of all humor, was no better than a slap in the face. “ _I_ don’t still live under the illusion that my father gives a shit about me.”

And with that, he had left. Jehan (who’d no doubt heard of the fight from Courfeyrac, the traitor) had glared at Enjolras for days.

The incident had, however, led to Enjolras having two revelations: that Mr. D didn’t only dislike him for his incessant activism, and that he, contrary to what everyone (Grantaire included) thought… surprisingly, gave a shit.

Enjolras and Grantaire argued all the time, but this particular fight had soon been known to the whole of camp, and Enjolras noticed an increased hostility from the camp director, which led him to believe the unbelievable (and it wasn’t because he thought Grantaire couldn’t be loved, _of course not_ , but because the fights between him and Dionysus were frequent and vicious, and words like _worthless son_ and _asshole father_ flew every which way, not to mention the damage done to the strawberry fields).

Mr. D disliked Enjolras so thoroughly because Enjolras hurt Grantaire.

*

That fall, Enjolras goes back to his mother, and she despairs and complains and pays him the way into yet another private school – which he manages to get expelled from, again. She just sighs and looks at him with that cool, disappointed look that wouldn’t hurt him quite so much if it didn’t feel like resignation, like she expected it all along.

When he comes back and Grantaire isn’t there, it gives him pause. Grantaire was at Camp long before Enjolras – at least eight beads line his necklace – and his absence feels distinctly _wrong_.

When a guilty thought occurs to him, and he asks Jehan about it, Jehan, who has come to Camp the same summer as him, who’s integral part of it as much as Grantaire is ( _was_ ), scoffs.

“That’s very self-centered of you. No, you’re not the reason he left, although you sure as hell didn’t help,” he says, then takes in the edge of uncertainty and distress on Enjolras’s face, and his own softens. “Sorry, Enjolras, it’s just… You haven’t been kind to him, and it’s not _only_ your fault, he winds you up and he does it _on purpose_. And to be fair, I don’t think it really has anything to do with you… I don’t know if it was intentional, but Grantaire’s never been on a quest, you know? For some reason, I don’t think Mr. D was going to let him. He’s been holed up in Camp Half-Blood for _years_ and it was slowly driving him insane.” Jehan takes a deep breath and winds the end of his braid around a finger. His words circle around in Enjolras’s head and bite at his conscience. _You haven’t been kind_. It strikes a little too close, because Enjolras knows that he has the best intentions, that he empathizes with his people and wants to help them – _he wants to right all the wrongs_ – but he often fails to relate to individuals. He is _good_ , but he isn’t always kind, and especially not to Grantaire.

Jehan makes a sound of disgust low in his throat and tugs at his braid. “They just can’t get it right,” he mutters, and Enjolras raises an eyebrow, because Jehan’s hair looks perfectly fine to him. It is plaited in a pretty French braid dotted with tiny red blossoms. It is both sad and sweet, because Jehan is both good _and_ kind and it is so unlike him to be intolerant. While he is vicious in battle, he rarely is in life. That only happens when the people he loves are on the line.

Following some dormant instinct in him – he isn’t Courfeyrac, he isn’t the people person of the little trio they form with Combeferre – he squeezes Jehan’s shoulder, and hopes his message gets through all the same.

_It isn’t right because it isn’t_ him _._

*

The dreams are definitely the weirdest part of the deal. As a demigod, Enjolras has had his fair share of prophetic, symbolic and just downright strange ones.

He has never dreamed of Grantaire before.

It starts in the tattoo parlor, in early June, the first year Grantaire is gone. Mostly, in-between sleepless nights and strange visions he has stopped trying to interpret, he just gets a peek into what Grantaire is up to.

He doesn’t admit it, and he doesn’t explore the feeling, but it is immensely calming to, every once in a while, get a reminder that Grantaire is alive and well.

‘Well’ may be an exaggeration, though.

He and Montparnasse trek back and forth across the country, sleeping where they can and using the Mist more than they should (when it gets them a roof over their heads at night, however, Enjolras breathes a sigh of relief). Their exploits are not always legal.

Montparnasse has gotten them silver knives to fend off lycanthropes, and steel ones for mortals. There’s a sadistic smile on his blood-red lips, and Grantaire seems unsure at first – they are supposed to fight monsters, not humans.

When Enjolras sees him again, however, he has no hesitation in using it. And Enjolras, in that eerie way he comes to know things he isn’t shown, understands that for two fifteen-year-olds traveling alone, monsters aren’t the only danger.

Enjolras is there for quite a few additions to Grantaire’s arms. For the basilisks that wrap around his wrists, biting their tails like _ouroboros_.

Well into their second year (and Enjolras has miraculously managed not to get expelled from his latest school) Grantaire and Montparnasse steal a car. It’s a worn-out, black pick-up truck, and they both love it. They name it Pegasus, and neither of them seems to care that they are underage and don’t have driver’s licenses.

Enjolras is there when they crash Pegasus, when, as Grantaire puts it, “a wild drakon appears!” and they swerve to avoid it. The high-topped truck apparently can’t handle it, and flips over a couple times before settling on its side.

All three of them (Enjolras secretly) mourn its loss more than is probably necessary.

Enjolras doesn’t talk about it with anyone, not even Combeferre and Courfeyrac, least of all Jehan. None of them seem to have doubts that Grantaire is alive, anyway, so maybe he isn’t the only one with insights on his life.

He wonders whether Grantaire sees him, too (their sleeping patterns don’t seem to align that often), when he goes on his third quest and returns painted red with the Nemean Lion’s blood.

*

This time, the underbrush is soft beneath Enjolras’ feet, the forest whispers around him, and he is playing a thousand-year ancient game. A god-born son just like his father, chasing a wild thing.

Grantaire had told him so, pushed past rows of snarling teeth and steel-blue eyes, “Serious? I am _wild_.”

So now Enjolras chases this boy, this wild thing, this son of wine and revels and madness, and his breath comes thick and fast, his heart is beating fiercely – wild, too, and traitorous.

It is a dream, but not a prophecy. A vision, but not of present things. He wonders whether this is what happens when they’re both asleep and the bacchanalia of their dreams meet.

Grantaire runs.

The paleness of his face, of his fast-moving limbs, of the soles of his bare feet flashes in-between the trees. Sometimes, a shock of blue: the wild thing looking back at him, cracking a smile. Slowing down, to make sure he is still pursued.

Grantaire runs, but he is no Daphne: his skin will not wrinkle and become bark, his curls will not turn to laurel leaves when he is touched.

When.

Because suddenly the wild thing is still, and even then his muscles are tense, poised like a tiger ready to pounce. He turns and flashes another smile: in this dream-world the shadows under his eyes linger, the tattoos on his arms seem to shift, breathe, but his smile is devoid of all bitterness. Full of mischief instead.  Enjolras’ fierce boiling anger, the frustration and fire he used to think disdain are stripped of all pretenses, and they flare up, burn him like too much ambrosia.

If there is song, if wine is flowing, if maenads in fawn-skins are dancing, if there is laughter beyond Grantaire’s rough shout of it, Enjolras does not acknowledge it.

They clash – caught, at last, even though he cannot tell who is the hunter and who the prey – and they sink down to the forest floor.

*

In the morning, it’s almost hard to pretend that everything is just as it always was.

(Except, of course, nothing has changed – just perspective)

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: All the monstersi mentioned are, of course, the PJO version. So you can find them all in the [Camp Half Blood Wiki](http://camphalfblood.wikia.com/wiki/Monsters). [Dreams](http://camphalfblood.wikia.com/wiki/Dreams) also work in weird ways in the PJO 'verse (although what I did with it may call for a little poetic license). Not in PJO, I think: the [ _kobaloi_](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kobalos) are mischievous sprites companions of Dionysus (they like to frighten mortals) and the [ _maenads_](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maenads) are Dionysus' female followers.


End file.
